


Brazen

by ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Hapless Humour, Mentions of Substance Abuse, Sexual Situations, Strong Profanity, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-03 23:20:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor/pseuds/ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Marriage is a fine institution, but I'm not ready for an institution.” — Mae West, </p><p>Well, that couldn't be any more real for Draco Malfoy than on the eve of his wedding. He was getting married the next day, but all he could think about was how his life was about to become so much more damned complicated.</p><p>He had no idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brazen

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little bit of harmless fun at Draco's expense. I hope you enjoy it.

Draco looked all around him through a haze of Firewhiskey. This was the day…well, tomorrow would be, at any rate. He was getting married, and if he was to be restricted to one woman for the rest of his life, he wasn’t going into it sober. That, he knew for sure.

The wedding of Draco Malfoy and Astoria Greengrass was the event of the summer. And although it wouldn’t get as much press as Harry Potter’s wedding to that Weasley bint, the society writers and the photographers were expected to be out in full force. Draco didn’t like having his picture taken, oddly enough, but for the sake of his parents’ social standing, he would just endure it. At first, he had said ‘no’, as Astoria was even slightly more shrewish than her older sister, Daphne, who’d been in his year. But, after some guilt-inducing harangue from Lucius and icy ‘well, then, you don’t love us, do you, Draco?’s from Narcissa, he finally just relented. Who said that one has to like whom they marry, anyway?

It was all happening just too fast. He was only twenty-two, for Salazar’s sake! He was supposed to be drinking himself into a stupor three nights a week, putting things into his body that he would regret later in life, and having casual sex with loose women. Wasn’t that what being that age was all about? _Well, hell_ , he thought, _I’m already halfway there._

He was fairly certain that he fit into the first category of drinking too much, but one tends to do that after spending the past five years trying to make reparations for something that he never actually did.

And he _did_ have casual sex with someone other than his fiancée, Astoria, but a pity screw here and there with Pansy Parkinson did not fit the bill of being with a ‘loose woman’. Pansy still fancied him, and Astoria was not interested in anything physical, so it was the perfect solution for maximum personal gratification.

But, to his credit, Draco had never turned to opiates or narcotic potions. Not that he hadn’t thought about it, mind, but the old adage of trying anything at least once didn’t extend that far in his brain. Goyle had offered him some when they were both about nineteen, but Draco saw how much it had fucked up his ex-friend up and passed on the ‘opportunity’.

None of that was important, though. All of this was going to stop once he got married, but a bit of nostalgia couldn’t hurt before all the fun was over. Fun. What a ridiculous word. It was defined as something that provides enjoyment and incites playfulness, but what a pile of shit _that_ was. He was marrying a woman he couldn’t even stand, just so his parents could walk through Diagon Alley without being cursed on sight. That was not ‘fun’; that was duty.

_To hell with this_ , Draco thought. He would much rather just crawl back into his bottle and forget about ‘fun’ for, oh, say… _ever_.

About three-quarters the way through the second bottle, Draco heard a persistent thumping noise, and it was really pissing him off. His head was already starting to hurt, an agonising foreshadowing of how he would feel in the morning without hangover potion. But this was like a drum inside his skull, jostling his poor, aching brain.

He stumbled over to the door, nearly tripping on the edge of his robes. “I’m coming!” he yelled in a slurred voice. “Fuck.” When he finally reached the door, he yanked it open, only to reveal who might possibly be the most annoying person on earth. “What the hell do you want, Potter?”

Potter’s nose crinkled in distaste when he got a whiff of Draco’s alcohol-saturated breath. “I was just coming over to review—“

Draco interrupted Potter’s explanation with a rather showy display of vomiting, complete with loud retching and puking for distance—right on his old nemesis’s leg.

“—security arrangements,” Potter finished, backing away from Draco. “Maybe you should sit down or something.” He pulled out his wand and cleaned up his garment with the flick of a wrist.

“How you do that, Potter?” Draco asked, emphasising the ‘P’ sound, complete with a spittle shower.

Even more disgusted than he was before, Potter raised a brow. “Do what?”

Draco waved his hand toward the wand. “You know…the non-verbal spells. I never could get that—“

“Perhaps if you hadn’t been so busy letting Death Eaters into the school, maybe you would have.” The look in Potter’s eyes was positively glacial but completely lost on Draco. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll leave you with your Firewhiskey and just take care of this tomorrow, when you might actually be ready to behave like a civil human being.”

The note of disdain, however, was not missed. “Listen, you pompous arsehole, I never asked for you to do this, and it’s not my fault you got assigned to it.” He jabbed his finger toward Potter accusingly for good measure, though, to a sober person, it was more comical than anything. “So don’t give me that ‘poor pity Potter’ rubbish.”

Now, verbal sparring with Potter _was_ something that Draco could do, no matter his level of intoxication. He didn’t care that Britain’s favourite Auror had kept him from going to Azkaban; the man was still a sanctimonious wanker, and Draco hated him purely on principle.

“Fine,” Potter hissed. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then…unfortunately.” He headed toward the door, but when he was halfway out, he looked over his shoulder and added, “Just make sure you at least take a shower. You smell like a wet dog.”

After the door slammed behind Potter, Draco frowned and sniffed his armpit. Okay, so he did smell like wet dog, but he’d been on a three-day bender, so bathing had been low on his list of priorities. Like everything else that he was supposed to care about at that moment, it could wait for tomorrow. Tonight was for making the best of his last night as a free man.

Just as Draco contemplated his capability to operate the Floo to see Pansy one more time, he slipped on, of all things, the bottle that he had polished off a couple hours before, and fell to the floor, hovering on the border between unconsciousness and an alcohol-induced stupor.

 

* * *

 

Draco awoke to intense light burning his eyes, even through the lids, and something or someone prodding his side with what had to be a shoe. He really wanted to know who would be so cavalier on a perfectly miserable day like this one, but he didn’t dare open his eyes for fear of permanent blindness.

“Come back later,” he grumbled as loudly as his throbbing cerebrum would allow. “I’m busy.”

“I’m afraid that’s simply not possible.”

At the sound of his father’s voice, Draco sat bolt upright. _That_ was a mistake. A wave of nausea swept through him like wildfire, and he had to use every ounce of his concentration not to throw up in front of Lucius. It was already embarrassing enough to be found passed out on the floor next to a puddle of vomit, but to add to it was definitely not how ‘a proper Malfoy should act’. At least, that’s what his mother would say.

“I had a feeling you would be lax in your preparations, so I arranged for an elf to come and assist you with whatever you need.” Lucius squinted disapprovingly at the putrid mass of vomit next to Draco, which was dangerously close to his hems, and added, “A wise precaution, I see. You are, as usual, not remotely ready to do your duty.”

Draco shielded his eyes from the sun to block at least one source of his current headache. The other was a bit more complicated. “I’m only doing my _duty_ because you decided to sell our family to the Dark Lord, _Father_.” He sneered the last word for emphasis. “So don’t even start with this again.”

Lucius headed toward the door in a manner that was oddly familiar to Draco, though he had no idea why. “Very well,” Lucius drawled. “I shall leave you two alone.”

_You two? What—_ It took some time for Draco to realise what Lucius had meant. Looking down at the front of his trousers, he was annoyed to find both a wet spot where he had pissed himself and an inopportune morning erection. _That’s just fucking great_ , he thought sarcastically. To top it all off, something smelt like wet dog, and he was fairly certain that it was himself.

A few minutes after Lucius left, Pixie the Elf arrived. Draco didn’t like the creatures overly much. Even though their servile attitude lent greatly to his desire not to do any more than he had to, they could get a bit clingy. They were actually a lot like Pansy, only without the happy ending.

“Master Draco, Pixie would likes to help you now!” The eager elf smiled hopefully.

Oh, no, Draco thought. I’m not letting this little prick touch me. “Er, no, Pixie. That’s quite all right. I’d much rather take a shower at the moment.”

Pixie looked up at him with eyes the size of lanterns, and Draco had to fight the urge to kick it in the chin. Abusing servants was not even on the map of things he cared about. But, each time he tried to enter the bathroom unfettered, the little pain in the arse would creep up behind him! It didn’t take long to figure out that Lucius had probably told it that it was, under no circumstances, to leave him to his own devices.

Then he had an idea. Part of the magic that bound all Malfoy house elves to the family, both past and present, was specific orders to not open closed doors. They were to knock twice, and if they were told to leave whoever it was alone, then they had to do it. This was his out clause.

“Oi! Pixie, go clean the vomit off the floor.” Just as the elf bolted to do as he was told, Draco sprinted toward the bathroom and barricaded himself in. While it was true that locks couldn’t hold a house elf, it still made him feel just that much further away from that vile little monster.

Quickly enough, a little fist beat on the door twice, and Draco relished shouting through the door, “Go away!”

Muffled by wood, he could hear Pixie say, “But Master Draco, I’s supposed to help! Let Pixie help!”

“No! Just…go find Astoria and do whatever she wants you to do.” Filthy little vermin…he had better do as he was told. Thankfully, Draco heard a little _crack_ of Apparition, signifying Pixie’s departure—thank Merlin.

In the shower, Draco reached for his soap, only to find that the charm on the tureen had worn off and it had run empty. Crap. The only thing there with which he could wash himself was the soap Pansy used to clean up before she left, but that was floral-scented. It probably wouldn’t do to show up at his wedding, a veritable social gala full of the most important people in the country, smelling like some other woman’s soap.

_Would they really notice?_ The water was still hitting his face as he stared at the pink soap, waffling over a decision that should be the least of his worries for the day. Eventually, he gave up. _Fuck it. No one’s going to care._ He doled out some of the soap and quickly scrubbed off the alarming amount of filth that had accumulated on his skin. He mentally promised himself never to get that dirty again, even during extended alcoholic binges.

After scrubbing his skin nearly raw, Draco stepped out of the shower, only to hear another knock just as he wrapped the towel around his waist. This was getting ridiculous. He was already far enough behind on getting ready, considering he needed to be in the ballroom by two. _Whoever this is, it had better be a damned emergency. I don’t have time for this._

Draco flung open the door, and he _would_ have groaned in frustration, had his ability to breathe not been squeezed from him by a blur of dark hair and pale skin. Of all days for Pansy to act like a crazy person, this was not a good one for her to pick.

“What are you doing here?” Draco wheezed once she let go. “Are you fucking insane?”

Pansy’s eyes sparkled up at his, and with the way her face looked, she resembled one of those flat-faced dogs that people insisted were cute. But they weren’t. He had never realised how remarkable she was in appearance, but in all the wrong ways.

“Draco, I can’t believe you’re doing this! You don’t love her, so why are you marrying her?”

He had to keep himself from laughing, which was no small task, considering what her statement was implying. “I don’t love youeither, so why do you care?”

Much to Draco’s delight, Pansy looked speechless. He thought that she had been fishing for some form of endearment from him, but that was never going to happen, because he didn’t find anything ‘dear’ about her. She was foolish, chatty, annoying, judgmental, and not attractive. Astoria was most of those things, too, but at least she was pretty.

Though she was probably wounded on some profound level by what he’d just said, Draco knew that she couldn’t keep quiet for long—and he was right. “But you used my soap.” She crossed her arms like that was that.

A wry smile twitched on the corner of Draco’s mouth. “That’s because I want to tell the world that I truly want another woman.” Just as he’d hoped, her eyes lit with hopefulness, purely for the purpose of him squashing it. “Merlin, woman, are you really that clueless?”

Confused, Pansy asked, “What do you mean?”

“What I _mean_ is that I fucking ran out of soap.” He jabbed his finger toward the door. “Now, if you’d kindly leave and never come back, perhaps I can get back to what I was doing before I was so rudely interrupted.”

Her expression was priceless. She looked like someone had just killed her pet, burned the body, and pissed on the ashes. Good. She needed to know how things really were if she was going to move on with her own life.

“I thought you were different, Draco.”

“Yeah? Well, you thought wrong, so get out.” He dragged her by her arm and opened the door. “And don’t come back,” he added before pushing her out of the room and slamming the door behind her.

The sound echoed through his head, intensifying his headache. He leant against the door and sighed heavily. He had never believed in superstitions like Friday the thirteenth, black cats, and other crap like that, but, at this point, he was sure that every broken taboo that he had accrued in his life had chosen that day— of all days — to cash in their collective bad luck. What else could possibly go wrong?

What a stupid question that had been. ‘Wrong’ did not quite touch on how Draco’s morning went. It was as if every little, seemingly insignificant detail involving the rather complicated science of nuptials exploded in his face.

First, Astoria’s dress had a tear in it along one of the seams (thank Merlin he didn’t have to touch that one), but she spent over an hour bitching about it to her mum instead of just owling Madam Twilfitt that she needed emergency repairs.

And then the Great Cake Debacle reared its ugly head. Apparently, one of the catering witches owned a Kneazle that was fond of sweets, because it had eaten almost the entire upper tier of the wedding cake. The woman looked like she was going to have a fit right there, but Draco only cared about one thing.

“Does Astoria or my mother know about this?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “Oh, no, Mr Malfoy. I couldn’t find either of them, or I wouldn’t have bothered you.”

Draco snorted. “That makes you a right sight better than most of these pillocks.” His eyes darted around to see if anyone could overhear before he added, “Look, just take off the top layer, move the little sugar statue people down to the next layer down, and just patch up the icing.”

She bit her lip. “Er, Fluffikins ate the head off of your little figurine.”

If it didn’t mean yet another disaster in his day, Draco would have laughed at the irony of it. “Don’t you have a backup, or can you make another one?” He was no expert in food spells, but he was pretty sure that making sugar people wasn’t that fucking hard, or else this woman would be unemployed.

Judging by the expression on her face, she had taken no such precaution. Draco rolled his eyes in frustration. Did he have to do _everything_ by himself? “All right, just give it to me, and I’ll see what we have left.”

The cake was salvageable apart from the very top tier, but he could see what she had meant about the figurines. He had an idea, though. Aiming his wand at the likeness of Astoria, he said, “ _Geminio._ ” A second sugared bride appeared, and Draco summarily snapped off the head with his teeth, causing the caterer to jump in surprise.

She watched in fascination as he nibbled off the excess length of hair to seem more like his own locks. When Draco was satisfied that the head looked sufficiently dissimilar to Astoria, he held the head next to his own statue’s decapitated body and said, “ _Reparo._ ” Instantly, the head that he had just created was seamlessly welded to look at least close to correct.

Her eyes darted back and forth between him and his proffered cake decoration. “That was genius!”

“No, _that_ was common sense.” Draco plunked the statue into her hand. “And it’s also ten Galleons off of your commission for complete lack of preparation and problem solving abilities.” Leaving her slack-jawed, he strode away to tackle the next ridiculous task at hand, which was something to do with the floral arrangements.

“…and furthermore, woman, I couldn’t care less about the difference between sea green and mint green if I tried. Just make them all the same colour!” Honestly, Draco did not understand why people could not figure these things our on their own. So what if the flower vases were not the exact shade that Astoria had chosen? However angry she might get about it was nothing compared to what he could start doing to people if they did not leave him alone.

And, as if he had not already been punished enough, a mousy-looking woman, whose name Draco did not care to remember, scuttled up to him, a clipboard in her hands. “Mr Malfoy, we have problems.”

Draco raised a brow. “No… _you_ have problems, but you insist on _making_ them my problems.”

“But…” She looked torn between bothering Draco with whatever imaginary disaster lurked in her mind or running as fast as she could in the opposite direction. Of course, though, she chose the former. “Someone put the Minister next to your father on the seating chart!”

“So?” Was he really supposed to give a damn about this?

She drew in a deep breath, which signalled Draco that she was about to launch into a lengthy explanation for a simple thing. After nearly five minutes of rambling, he cleaned that Minister Shacklebolt didn’t like Lucius Malfoy and it would be some sort of calamity if the two were anywhere near one another.

“That may be the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard all day, and that list is quite long already. Leave the seating the way it is. They’re adults; they can handle it.”

Then he left, before anyone else could find him. It was already one o’clock, and he hadn’t even dressed yet. His escape had almost even worked…almost. Of all the fucking people, it had to be Potter that he saw last. “What the hell do you want?”

“We’re supposed to review the security arrangements, remember?” Potter cocked his head to the side. “Perhaps you were too pissed to recall my visit last night about this?”

_Last night_? Draco didn’t remember talking to Potter anytime in the past month, let alone the night before. He must have drunk more than he thought. “Er, yeah. Of course. Whatever you want, go for it. I don’t care. Just so long as I don’t get murdered or maimed on the altar, I really don’t need to know the particulars.”

Potter had the nerve to be irritated. “As well you shouldn’t. I just wanted to let you know that there were a couple death threats sent in to the _Prophet_ yesterday, saying that they were going to kill you today. I don’t think they’re serious, but just in case, I’ll be here all day.”

“Are you serious?” Draco knew that not too many people liked him at that juncture, but death threats? Really?

“If I wasn’t serious, I wouldn’t be here right now. I just thought it would be common courtesy to at least let you know, but I see that you still wouldn’t know courtesy if it punched you in the face.” On that note, Potter turned heel and stalked off. Draco knew that it was probably ill advised to purposely aggravate the man responsible for his safety, but it was hard to resist. It was almost like second nature.

Finally, Draco was able to retreat into the safety of his bedroom, only to be left wondering what else could possibly blow up in his face, or if they had got all of that nonsense out of the way.

  


In wizard weddings, the bride was not the only one to walk down an aisle. In separate chambers on opposite sides of the hall, the bride and groom would both enter the room to processional music simultaneously. They would then meet in the middle in front of the minister, who performed the Binding Spell after they listened to him talk for a half an hour about commitment, service, and other dry subjects that no one could ever remember.

Therefore, Draco, dressed in marital robes of the blackest black imaginable, waited in the antechamber on the east side of the ballroom of Malfoy Manor. Even with the help of a house elf, he had still not had time to do anything with his hair but comb it as neatly as possible. He knew that he’d hear about it later from Narcissa, but at least he had not been late.

He stared at his watch, watching the second hand move achingly slow. Four minutes and thirty-nine seconds remained in his bachelorhood, and with each tick of the clock, that notion became more and more…blah. What difference would being married make, anyway? Sure, he would eventually have a child or two, but otherwise, what else was there?

Three twenty-two left now. Draco wondered what life with Astoria would be like. They would most likely not share a bedroom, as he had no desire to sleep on pink sheets with fifteen pillows and flowers that no one looked at on the bedside table. She would definitely want to spend a lot of money on things like clothes and parties, but it wasn’t an issue that the Malfoy coffers couldn’t handle.

Two ten. And then there were obligatory public appearances. They would certainly need to attend a fair number of social events and put on that ‘we’re in love’ face to everyone who mattered. It was simply expected of them. Plus, he was required by the deal that both Lucius and Astoria’s father had struck to find a lucrative job for Daphne and form similar business ties for the Greengrass’ failing Quidditch franchise. They were part owners of the Appleby Arrows, but the team was so bad that they didn’t sell enough tickets to cover any more than operating cost. Why else would a decent family consent to sell off their daughter to a convicted Death Eater?

Forty-nine. Draco’s mind flooded with so many things that had yet to go wrong. At first, he'd thought that the morning’s troubleshooting rounds had been monotonous, but that was nothing compared to what they could have been like, especially if Astoria had dealt with them. She was just so high-strung and stringent on every little detail, he couldn’t imagine her ever being happy with anything.

Three. Two. One. His time was up. The string ensemble started to play the traditional wizard wedding processional, a soft, lilting melody that gave the feeling of trees, gently flowing water, and birdsong. Draco couldn’t help but think that this was just to lull one into a false sense of security, of thinking that one is doing the right thing by marrying whomever was coming from the other side of that room.

Draco stepped onto the carpet and slowly made his way toward the altar, all the while trying like hell to keep in step with the metre of the song (as he was supposed to). The second he spotted the massive crowd that had gathered for the lavish spectacle of a Malfoy wedding, his brain immediately regretted its lack of restraint from the night before, namely the hangover that had come with it. The sunshine streaming in through the windows burned his eyes, and the silence of everyone watching started to become a ring in his ears.

His eyes drifted over the assembly, and the first face he picked out was that of Potter in the back of the room, waiting for something to go wrong. More toward the front were some of his acquaintances from school; Blaise Zabini sat smugly next to some blonde strop who was like a dog eyeing a piece of meat. Pathetic.

He nearly stumbled, though, when he saw Theo Nott, who was there with…Susan Bones? That was, to say the least, unexpected. Draco had known that Nott wanted to be a different man than his father, but dating a sodding Hufflepuff? It was nearly as embarrassing if he went and snogged Potter’s wife—who was also there, next to her husband. He had to fight off a scowl at the thought of a Weasley contaminating his wedding.

Goyle was in the third row, his invitation almost an afterthought, with Tracy Davis on his arm. Draco silently wondered how much he had paid her to be seen with him. She had always disliked Goyle, and for good reason. He was an idiot, looked like a troll, had no common sense, and his breath always carried a faint scent of garlic, which was, at times, nauseating.

Lucius and Narcissa were in the front row, sitting next to Lennox and Rachel Greengrass. His father had his best ‘don’t you dare embarrass me’ expression plastered to his face, and his mother was daintily dabbling fake tears from her eyes with an overly-showy handkerchief. Astoria’s parents were regarding him carefully, as if sizing up what kind of man he was, which wasn’t particularly worrisome, considering how much of a mad shrew their daughter was. It was his skin on the line, not hers.

And there she was. His beautiful bride was looking straight at him, and she was happy. Despite everything that she had said, clearly vocalising her disdain for him and his entire existence, Astoria seemed almost happy to be marrying him. Whether that was because of his family’s wealth or his blood status Draco didn’t know, but he also found that he didn’t much care. A strange sensation of calm set over him, as if everything was going to turn out all right in the end. The day’s quota for disaster had been spent already, and he was actually looking forward to leaving it behind him as a married man.

At the centre of the room, Draco and Astoria met, facing one another. As was traditional, both held their hands up and pressed them into each other’s palms. It was a symbolic gesture that signified leaning on one another, forming a stronger, more balanced bond together than apart. He had always found this part ridiculous, but when he looked at her, it just felt like something that he really wanted to do.

It had taken this long for Draco to realise just how beautiful Astoria was. She looked like a fucking goddess or something, her cream-coloured dress hugging her body in a way that he hoped that he’d get to later on that night. He had just spent so much time noticing how annoying she was when she talked that his brain had not registered that she was, in her own right, a sexy and alluring woman. He couldn’t recall a single time in his life when he could actually imagine shagging the same person for the rest of his life, but if he had to, she wasn’t a poor choice by any stretch of the imagination.

“Friends and family, young and old, we assemble today to pay homage to the love between Draco and Astoria.” The ancient minister droned out the typical introduction to the matrimonial rites, his voice barely louder than a whisper. Draco could barely hear the man, even though he was standing right in front of the man.

Much to Draco’s amusement, Astoria turned to the old berk and gave him a look that could have slain a bloody dragon. It was a not-too-kind reminder of what he was forgetting. “My apologies, Miss Greengrass,” he whispered, ignoring Draco entirely. He knew who was the most hazardous to his personal safety.

“ _Sonorous_ ,” the minister said, his wand at his larynx. His voice now amplified, he repeated, “Friends and family, young and old, we assemble today to pay homage to the love between Draco and Astoria.

“On this day, they come before you all to seek your blessing as they set out to forge a life together, armed with the deepest and most sacred bond between two people: love. For no force on this earth can defeat love.”

Draco bit his lip hard to avoid laughing out loud. He could not believe this drivel. The only power that love had was to make people do incredibly stupid things for their paramours, such as fight, go to war, and even die. He was fairly certain that he would never die for Astoria, but he did at least care enough about her to cut things off with Pansy. Sure, it wasn’t very romantic, but after everything that he’d been through, it was a pretty decent start.

It didn’t take Draco long to figure out that he was not listening to a word that the minister was saying, considering Astoria had just kicked him in the shin as discreetly as she could.

“What did I miss?” He looked back and forth between Astoria and the minister, both of whom seemed extremely annoyed that he was ruining things.

“Your vows, you prat! You’re supposed to say your vows!” Astoria realised that she was speaking loud enough for the first few rows to hear, and gossip sprang up in the crowd. Shit! Instead of the Malfoys’ good will (purchased with a generous portion of Galleons, of course) being in the headlines of the social pages, it would be an argument at the altar between the not-so-happy couple of the year. Fuck.

Draco scanned the crowd, only to find that most were either amused, scandalised, or about to fall asleep. He could see Potter snickering in the background, which just pissed him off royally. There were few things that appealed to him less than being a source of mirth for Harry fucking Potter. Screw him. He would come up with vows right then and there, since he hadn’t known that he was supposed to write any.

Loud enough for everyone to hear, even without a charm, he said, “I, Draco Malfoy, humbly request that all present regard this lovely woman as I do now—as a light that shines in the darkest of times.” Sappy and disgustingly sweet…perfect. “Without Astoria, my world would be eternally cast in shadows, and Merlin knows that I’ve had too much dark things in my life. From this day forth, I will not allow that darkness to be my master again.” _Stupid, Draco. Bringing up the Dark Lord/Dark Mark/Dark everything was possibly the worst thing you could’ve done!_

Judging by blank stares from Astoria and the Minister, Draco had probably not done that right. Their hands still connected at the palms, he asked her, “What was I supposed to say?”

“All you had to say was ‘I take you as my wife and my partner in this life and the next’.” Her voice lowered to an angry hiss. Yes, this was the Astoria with whom he was vastly more familiar. “Have you _never_ been to a wedding? You ruined everything!”

Draco simply didn’t care what he did or did not ruin anymore. He had already embarrassed himself and his future wife…somehow. He just wanted to get out of sight before he committed another gaffe. “Fine. I ruined everything. Now, can we please get on with this?”

The minister had the good grace to interject. “Miss Greengrass,” his amplified voice said, “Do you take this man as your husband and partner for this life and the next?”

“I, Astoria, take Draco as my husband and my partner in this life and the next.” For emphasis, she rolled her eyes, as if saying, ‘Yes, this is what you’re supposed to say, you dolt’.

With that part out of the way, it was again the minister’s turn to blather on about commitment, sacrifice, and something else that Draco couldn’t be arsed to listen to or care about. Even the audience was becoming drowsy just by listening, and he couldn’t blame them. His head still hurt, and he had barely slept, and in combination with a pedantic dullard filling his ears with nonsense, it was just the right climate for a nap on his feet.

Just as Draco was about to fall asleep whilst standing, it was time for the Binding Spell. Their hands, still connected at the palms, would now be linked together, showing the evolution from leaning on each other to being truly connected.

“Your vows of love and honour have been witnessed by all present. Now, I shall bind you both for eternity.” The old wizard tapped the tip of his wand on their clasped hands, causing a warm tingle of euphoria to flow throughout Draco’s body. His headache was gone, and he was no longer tired. In its place, he felt a strong desire to throw Astoria over his shoulder, carry her up the stairs, and never come back down. This Binding Spell was some powerful stuff.

The successful Binding was sealed with a chaste kiss, but it was everything that Draco could do to keep from making it a filthy, vulgar one. Come to think of it, he was fairly certain that this was the first time that he’d ever kissed Astoria, and he had to admit that she was fairly talented. He looked forward to teaching her everything he knew.

So, that was it. They were married. Draco Malfoy was no longer eligible, much to the chagrin of, well…no one. Maybe Pansy, but she hardly counted. Astoria’s good name would bring him a lot of good will, as well as his parents. He just hoped that they appreciated the level of loyalty he was showing. But, knowing Lucius, probably not.

From there, the couple proceeded down the centre aisle, which met in a ‘T’ with the first two aisles. Showers of confetti rained down on them, and most of the attendees looked genuinely happy for him. It was not expected, to be sure, but it was really nice to not be a former Death Eater.

At the exit, he saw Potter, standing in wait for him. Faking a smile, Draco asked, “What the hell do you want?”

Potter extended his hand. “Just wanted to congratulate you for finding a respectable woman who would have you.”

“Fuck off,” Draco sneered. He shook Potter’s hand quickly before leading Astoria out the door and far, far away from the press. An army of servants and house elves stood guard at the base of the stairs, barring anyone from following them up the steps and to the private suites. One might have liked to think that the press wouldn’t even be that brazen, but that’s just not how things worked.

Draco kicked open the door to his bedroom and pulled Astoria in after him to the massive four-poster, his body humming with anticipation. He fell backwards onto the bed, dragging her on top of him. His lips desperately smashed into hers, all of his frustrations and doubts of the day branding themselves in their kiss.

Astoria pulled back for a second, panting. “We’ll miss the reception.”

“So don’t care,” he grunted, pulling her mouth back to his.

Primal urges ran rampant through Draco, causing him to tear the wedding dress on which he had spent over a thousand Galleons right down the front. All he wanted was more of her to taste and to feel. His lips perused the newly exposed flesh, relishing the taste of strawberries that permeated her skin.

With soft little moans, Astoria urged Draco’s inner beast. He had never wanted anything in his life more than he wanted to ravish her right there. To hell with the reception. Let the guests have a party at his expense, because he was the one having the good time with is immensely shaggable new wife.

He felt her hands stray to the front of his dress robes and nearly bit her shoulder in anticipation. She slowly and deliberately undid each and every button, lace, and fold until all that was exposed was his underwear. The robe was quickly jettisoned, but his underwear were inched down his hips in a slow, agonising manner, causing his heart to nearly explode with the rapidity of its beating.

At last, Draco was gloriously nude, and Astoria pinned him down to the bed and straddled his chest. She pulled the remnants of her dress off, leaving only a bra and panties between him and his prize. She looked so fucking sexy, looking at him through her sultry, inexperienced eyes. She probably had no clue how much he really wished she was wearing as little as he was. His breath was coming out in sharp pants, and his self-control was nearly spent. He wanted her so badly he could taste it.

But as just as quickly she was there, she was gone. Astoria had slid off of his midriff and off the bed, from which she walked toward the door and closed it. When she came back, she did not, much to Draco’s regret, resume her former position. Instead, she sat down next to him on the bed.

“Now that we’re married, you need to learn the ground rules. We have sex when I want sex, but when I want it and get it, it will nearly always not be with you. Are we clear on this?”

Draco’s jaw hung open, slack with shock. She had just told him that she was going to cheat on him the very same night they got married! Who the fuck had the bollocks to even _think_ about it?

Astoria took his silence as confirmation. “Excellent.” She ran her finger down his chest and toward his navel, not to mention other, far more pleasurable destinations, but she stopped short when he inhaled sharply. “You needed to know who the boss is, and that is not you, dear _husband_.” She emphasised the last word, just to raise his hackles—and it worked.

She slid off the bed and walked toward the door, making a concerted effort to sway her hips as alluringly as possible. At the exit, she looked over her shoulder and just laughed at the sight of him, sprawled out naked and his mouth hanging open stupidly. “I’m glad we could have this chat, my love.”

When the door slammed behind her, Draco simply stared at the ceiling for the rest of the night, not even bothering to get dressed again. He had no idea how she’d done it, but not only had he been sucked into being married to a conniving wench, she wore the bloody pants in it all!

He had foolishly thought that his day could not get any worse, but he had been more wrong about that than he had about anything in his life, and that _included_ the Dark Mark on his arm. Only one thought remained in his sexually frustrated brain:

_I need a fucking drink._


End file.
